The Cats in All Our Lives

New Zealand Listener, Volume 22, Issue 547, 16 December 1949, Page 4

The Cats in All Our Lives

R. MICHAEL JOSEPH, who enjoys "dealing personally with the writer’s | temperament," is obviously an unusual publisher. It is true that he ‘also likes and understands cats, and he would probably see nothing strange or offensive in an analogy | between cats and writers. One of the minor tragedies of .English ‘usage is the adoption of "cat" as a synonym for a spiteful woman or a scratching child. Admittedly, cats have enough of human nature ‘to make them scratch and _ hiss when they are angry or frightened, but they also have attractive and ‘even noble attributes. They are | proudly conscious of their own | worth as individuals; in the man‘ner of some of-our artists, they ‘seem to believe that they earn ‘their board and lodging by bring‘ing beauty into the world. No writer ever had a gift of stillness more profound than that of a cat who crouches motionless while the day is like a soft dream around |him., And it should not be imag|ined that no mind is at work be|hind those half-closed eyes. Cats are sensitively organised: they share with writers a quickness of perception and response, and they usually know a great deal of what is happening in the neighbourhood. Their sense of dignity is highly | developed: they are easily embarrassed by the tactlessness of people ‘with whom they condescend to live. Much of their anxiety is covered by a habit of ceremonial 'washing, directed to parts of the ‘body not easily accessible. But they should not be driven too far. In common with some of our writers, they can be neurotic; and if- they are neglected or too frequently criticised they may suffer a nervous breakdown. Thereupon. they withdraw from civilisation and live in a solitary and brooding way in’a world of long grass and tangled hedges. Sometimes they come back renewed and ready for mischief, as if an explosive idea

has been found in the long meditation; and in their addiction to bursts of energy, followed by spells of idleness, they are strangely close to creative method. Yet why is it that cats are spoken of as if they were all females? Why should only women be cattish, whea everybody knows that men also can be spiteful? Perhaps the explanation is in the animal’s grace and softness, though there could be nothing more masculine than a cat leaping superbly to the top of a fence. It is understandable, of course, that people who like cats should be interested personally in writers, for it is alleged that male authors have a little of the woman in their nature. Yet writers are less temperamental than some other artists. They are almost phlegmatic if compared with musicians; and although they like their work: to be popular, their hunger for applause is less consuming than the actor’s-perhaps because the applause they receive, like the criticism, comes muted from a distance, so that they have time to compose themselves and to assume a stoical indifference which is beyond the reach of performers who stand face to face with an audience. When everything is said, however, cats and artists merely reveal'in exaggerated forms the attributes which all men .and women have in some degree. Many people are neurotic without being creative. Cats only appear to be vain, whereas human beings are often vain for no good reason. The cat who plays with a mouse knows nothing of cruelty: it is the semblance of evil we have known ourselves which makes us watch him with disapproval. And the contentment of a cat after food and rest and a stroking hand reminds us of what we too can feel when inwardly we are as smooth as cream. ‘There are cats in our lives even if, in the coldness of our hearts, we close our doors upon them when the wind is rising out-/’ side and the fire is crumbling into embers on the hearth. '